Short Story
Eurydice's Truth
The poets say he turned back. They forgot that both gods and men had already silenced me. Even now I linger in the world of the dead, millennia after my husband showed how little faith he had in me. The stories say that after his awful death he found peace, that he could walk beside me with no need to look back. But in truth, he remains lost in his songs, and I am still an afterthought, or perhaps merely an ideal for his imagination.
By J.B. Miller4 days ago in Fiction
Where did February go?
Is it really already the middle of March? All of February has blurred into one vast memory, and I don’t know what I did or where it went. Outside, there was frost, and for the first time in a long while, Prague was wrapped in a white coat and stayed that way, the way winters used to be. Like the city, I wrapped myself up too, and from the safety of my home, I watched from beneath the covers how quickly life can pass by when one isn’t paying attention.
By George Roast4 days ago in Fiction
Real men drink, right?
He has a problem. He’s felt it for years now, but he refuses to face it. He doesn’t want to admit it, to himself or to the people around him. All his heroes were the same. He likes to recall the scene where James Bond sits in a dusty pub in Latin America, a glass of whiskey in hand, his gaze fixed on a scorpion crawling across the bar. When he first fell for literature, it was Post Office and Women, which he read over and over again. Without those cans of beer and bottles of cheap whiskey, Bukowski’s work wouldn’t have been so raw, so honest. Even Vaclav Havel spent most of his nights in Prague bars; without that, he wouldn’t have been who he was. Those were the real men.
By George Roast4 days ago in Fiction
Al Martino and the First UK Number One
Al Martino and the First UK Number One In the autumn of 1952, the streets of London were alive with the gentle hum of post-war optimism. Radios perched on shelves in cozy living rooms played the latest hits, and families gathered around the small screens of television sets, hungry for music that felt both new and comforting. Among the influx of tunes that had begun to dominate the airwaves, one song quietly prepared to make history. It was “Here in My Heart” by Al Martino, a ballad that would not only capture the hearts of the British public but also secure its place as the very first number one on the newly compiled UK Singles Chart.
By George’s Girl 2026 4 days ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Secret. AI-Generated.
It was a rainy evening when Ayan first stumbled upon the little shop at the end of Maple Street. The sign read simply, “The Clockmaker”, in faded golden letters. Most people in town ignored it, dismissing it as another forgotten relic of the past. But something about the warm glow from its windows drew him closer, as if the shop itself was calling him. Inside, the air smelled of polished wood and old paper. Rows of clocks lined the walls—grandfather clocks, cuckoo clocks, pocket watches—all ticking in perfect harmony. Behind a cluttered counter stood an elderly man with silver hair, his eyes twinkling beneath thick spectacles. “Welcome,” the man said softly. “I’ve been expecting you.” Ayan froze. “Expecting me?” he asked, unsure whether to feel alarmed or amused. The clockmaker smiled. “Yes. Some gifts find their way to the right person. Come closer.” Hesitant, Ayan stepped forward. On the counter lay a small, intricately carved box, no larger than a loaf of bread. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. The carvings shifted subtly, almost like they were alive, telling stories of unknown lands and faces that seemed familiar yet unplaceable. “This,” the clockmaker said, “is not an ordinary box. It reveals what you need to see most, but only when the time is right.” Ayan reached out to touch it. The moment his fingers brushed the wood, the world around him blurred. The clocks stopped ticking, the rain outside ceased, and the room disappeared. He was somewhere else—a misty forest, dimly lit by a silver moon. A voice echoed softly: “The path you seek lies within. Choose carefully, for every choice carries a consequence.” Ayan blinked. Before him appeared two paths: one paved with golden leaves that shimmered even in the night, the other a dark, winding trail overgrown with roots and shadows. His heart raced. Something told him the golden path was tempting but perhaps misleading, while the dark path held a mystery he wasn’t yet ready to understand. He stepped onto the golden path first. The air smelled sweet, like honey and spring flowers. In the distance, he saw a small village. Children laughed and ran through cobblestone streets. Music floated from a tavern. It was perfect, serene… almost too perfect. And then he noticed the villagers’ faces. Blank. Empty eyes staring forward, smiling without joy. A shiver ran down his spine. Everything was beautiful, yet lifeless. He turned to leave, but the path had vanished. The golden leaves crumbled into dust under his feet. Panic surged through him. He ran, calling out, until the ground beneath him gave way. He fell into darkness. When he awoke, he was standing at the beginning of the dark path. The forest was silent, shadows stretching like fingers. Mist clung to the twisted trees, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear faint whispers—some pleading, some laughing, some crying. “Don’t be afraid,” a soft voice said again. He turned to see the clockmaker standing beside him, older somehow, as if the forest had aged him. “This path is harder, yes. But it shows truth.” Ayan took a deep breath and began walking. The shadows seemed to move around him, forming shapes: a little girl chasing a paper kite, an old man carving a wooden boat, a woman painting a window sill. Each scene shimmered like a memory—not his, but something close to it. A strange familiarity stirred inside him. At the heart of the forest, he found a lake so still it mirrored the sky perfectly. Floating above the water was a tiny key, glowing faintly. The clockmaker’s voice echoed again: “The key unlocks the box. But remember, what you unlock changes you forever.” Ayan reached out. The moment his fingers touched the key, a burst of light enveloped him. He was back in the shop, the clocks ticking once more. The box on the counter had opened. Inside lay a small, folded letter, written in a hand he didn’t recognize but somehow knew. “Courage is not the absence of fear. It is the choice to face what lies within. The life you seek is not in perfect beauty or fleeting pleasure—it is in truth, in every shadow you fear, in every joy you earn. Your journey begins now.” The clockmaker nodded. “Now you know. Every choice you make creates your story. Remember that, and never fear the dark, for it teaches what the light cannot.” Ayan left the shop that night with the box tucked under his arm. The rain had stopped, and the streets shimmered under the soft glow of lamps. But more importantly, something inside him had shifted. He understood that life was not about avoiding shadows, but learning to walk through them. And somewhere, deep in the ticking of the city’s clocks, he felt the whisper again: “Your story has just begun.”
By Zuzain Muhammad4 days ago in Fiction
Do Snails Like Beer ?
The Last Drink One damp evening I stood in my garden looking at the damage again. My lettuce leaves were full of holes, and the shiny silver trails told the same old story. The snails had been busy during the night. Sometimes it feels as though the garden belongs to them more than it belongs to me.
By George’s Girl 2026 4 days ago in Fiction
What The Room Keeps
The beginning was so small that I almost missed it. After the bell rings, my classroom usually empties slowly, much in the way bars do at last call when everyone lingers a little longer than they should. It never fails—someone lingers to spill the day’s hottest tea, someone else gathers the Chromebooks and slides them into the cart while pretending not to listen, and at least one kid asks to borrow my pink, English teacher coded cardigan tomorrow because the air conditioning in this building seems personally offended by human comfort. I call them “my child”, when they say something so obvious or ridiculous, threaten to throw someone out the window in a voice that makes the good students laugh as I gather my patience together and ask them to start collecting bail money because “today is finally the day”. Eventually the hallway wins and carries them off, but the room never quite lets them go. The blue LED lights that line the ceiling are still glowing. The gold frames across the back wall—Bad Bunny, Tupac Shakur, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Margaret Atwood, Octavia Butler, Sarah J. Maas, George Lucas, & Kubrick—my silent proof that language belongs to everyone.
By Jennifer Vasallo 4 days ago in Fiction
